


A Midnight Clear

by LyraNgalia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler appears in Baker Street one December night, but is it because trouble follows The Woman wherever she goes, or is it something more benign?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Midnight Clear

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [lpulverized](http://lpulverized.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr for the Adlock secret santa exchange, for the prompt "Irene and Sherlock celebrating Christmas for the first time with Hamish". I hope you enjoy this, my dear, and merry Christmas.

It is Christmas Eve when she arrives. Just barely Christmas Eve, three minutes before midnight on Christmas Day when the Woman sweeps into Baker Street in a swirl of wool coat and a bundle in her arms, snow clinging to her shoulders and her hair. Sherlock Holmes is sitting in his chair, staring into the fire, ignoring the faerie lights Mrs. Hudson had strung up days ago along with the evergreen garland now hanging on the mantel. John was with his family, and Sherlock is considering for the third time how to readjust the garland so that it could catch fire. But that plan of action is abandoned when the Woman is in the room, and he finds himself on his feet, seconds behind her as he so often annoyingly finds himself, always a second behind the Woman.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” she says lightly, as if her arrival had been planned, announced, and was not a complete surprise. She shrugs, shaking snow from her shoulders, and the bundle in her arms moves, stirs in protest. Irene Adler shifts in response, brushing snow from the folds of the blanket in her arms, and the bundle quiets again. She nods towards Sherlock. “I half expected you to have been dragged off by Dr. Watson and his wife, no doubt they think brooding into a fire this time of year is unhealthy.”

Sherlock's eyes move from the Woman in front of him to the bundle in her arms, and back again. She could all but _see_ the way his mind was working, the way his eyes went to her shoes, to look for traces of telltale mud, though the only mud on her shoes is from stepping out of the cab at the door, to her coat for fibers, to her hair. When his eyes land on the blanket wrapped bundle in her arms, he freezes, and his jaw works for a moment, his eyes riveted to the thing within the bundle, then to her face again. “What are you doing in London?” he demands. “You're barely disguised, hair colour, make-up. Irene Adler is _dead_ , Woman, I won't have all that effort go to waste.” A pause. “You're here because you're in danger. You know better than to come to London for any other reason.” He springs downstairs to ensure the door is shut, to peer through the seldom used peephole, then bounds back up when he is satisfied by what he finds (or does not find). 

She watches him with a small enigmatic smirk, adjusting the blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms as she does, as she allows him to sweep past her again, as he does his best to ignore the child in her arms. “Except if I were in danger, I would know that speed is of the essence. And I am infinitely slower with a child,” she reminds him. “You're trying to fit data to a pre-existing theory.” His mouth twitches in annoyance, and she rounds on him, moving with determination, circling him as surely as a shark despite the sway of her hips, the way she moves with a side-to-side rhythm that seems to lull the bundle, the _child_ in her arms. “You're also positively contorting yourself to keep from acknowledging _him._ ”

He takes an involuntary step back and, upon catching himself, glares at her in irritation. Despite himself, his eyes are drawn to the bundle in her arms, the thing that is carefully wrapped in blankets, the _child_ who raises a tiny fist, as if aware of the sudden attention, and gestures willfully. “You wouldn't travel with him if you thought it would put him in harm's way,” Sherlock admits grudgingly. “You've, _ **we've**_ , expended too many resources to ensure his safety for you to waste it.” 

He looks pointedly down at the boy, at the child in his mother's arms, but refuses to move from his spot as the child, little more than six, perhaps eight months old, blinks wide blue eyes at him. “He's of average weight for his age. Difficult to tell if he's within the top percentile in terms of size, the way he's bundled up,” he says, rattling off what he can see immediately. A pause, and then he adds, more a question than another fact, “He's healthy?”

She nods, and loosens the wrappings around the baby, running a light finger along his cheek. “Quite healthy. He terrorizes Nell at night, refusing to let her sleep.” In response, the child tries to grasp his mother's finger, and she smiles, a soft genuine smile, offering him to Sherlock. “You should say hello to your son Hamish, Mr. Holmes." 

Sherlock does not move, though he gives her a sharp look of deep offense at the name she offers. “You _didn't_ , Woman. That is a terrible name. _Ordinary_.” As ordinary as John Watson. 

She laughs then, and the child in her arms gurgles, waving his small, chubby fists. “Of course not,” she scoffs, her own smile growing smug and pleased at his reaction. “His name is Nero.” 

He nods then, once, and steps closer, his hands firmly at his side, not reaching for the boy even as he nears, a look of intense curiosity on his face. The child looks back, his wide blue eyes unblinking, regarding his father with the same intensity with which he was being regarded. “Good,” Sherlock says. “Nero. It's unusual. Mycroft will hate it.” 

Irene smirks knowingly and stays still, does not try to offer him the child again. “Not that we'd ever let _him_ know about my son.” 

He nods, finally breaking gaze with the child, and turns back to her. “Why are you here, Woman? Tonight, of all nights?” he asks quietly. The implication is clear, obvious in the silence between them. _Why are you here with him?_

“My flight to Argentina was cancelled,” she retorts blithely, so blithely that it is obviously a lie. Whether the lie is that her flight had been to Argentina or elsewhere, or that the flight was cancelled, well, that was less obvious. He is close, his body radiating heat against hers, Nero a warm comforting weight in her arms. They are not ordinary people, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes. Their child would not be either. But in this moment, they _feel_ ordinary. Two parents, a child, a fire and the faint spicy scent of Christmas garlands. “I knew a safer place to stay than an overcrowded hotel at Heathrow.”

He smiles at that, at her blithe lies, at the way they stand. They are painfully ordinary in this moment, but there is something comforting in it, something comfort _able_. It will not last, their mundane moments never do. They are too fond of being extraordinary to let them last. “A cancelled flight on Christmas Eve,” he repeats, his arm reaching for her waist, resting along the small of her back. “And what would you have done if I'd accepted John Watson's invitation to spend Christmas Eve with him and Mary?” 

Her eyes gleam in the firelight. “Broken in and slept in your bed, of course.” She leans into his touch, and her words are teasing, knowing. She knows he will hear more than the words themselves, because they communicate best in the silences, in the small touches and the acceptance of them. “But then I knew you would be here. I'm surprised you haven't set fire to the decorations yet.” 

The clock on the mantelpiece chimes quietly, marking midnight, and Sherlock laughs. He draws close to her, magnetically so, still not reaching for the child between them, but his mouth is close to hers, his lips all but brushing hers as he answers, “Two person job. I was waiting for a companion.” Her own smile mirrors his, and she knows her eyes are dark and dilated in the dim firelight, just like his. She leans into him, her smiling mouth meeting his, catching his next words as they fall from his lips. “Merry Christmas, Miss Adler.” 

“And a happy New Year, Mr. Holmes.”

The child between them coos.


End file.
